Let's Have Dinner
by ausland
Summary: What if the texts were a game between Irene and Sherlock? It started in a sitting room in Belgravia. And then they happened upon each other, purely by chance. And then again, on purpose. And again. Until they cared about each other. Until there was sentiment. Follows canon, but goes into the missing time not shown in the episode. Sherlock/Irene, but NOT anti-John. Sequel up.
1. Part One

**Well, I set out to write a oneshot. And then it grew to twenty pages. And then twenty five. And I wasn't even done with the plane scene. And I had already written a snippet of Karachi. So... this is going to have another chapter. This is only part one (and it was about 16 pages long). **

**This follows canon closely- it's not _plausible_ but it certainly is possible. **

**I will warn you that it does get a little... adult... and that especially in the beginning I'm a bit heavy on the narration and not the actual plot.**

**Please note that the _italics_ can be thoughts, or they can be subtext. When two characters are talking (Irene and Sherlock) and there are italics addressed to one another, it's what they mean for the other to glean from their words. If it's during a character's narration, it's their thoughts.**

**And the line breaks aren't working. Darn.**

**I want to thank Francesca Wayland (the author of the BEST Sherlock/Irene story I've ever read) for reading and review my last _Sherlock_ story and giving me encouragement. And inspiration in the form of pictures on tumblr.**

**Also, I made a beautiful discover in the transcript of the entire episode (a fanfiction author's gold mine) done by Ariane DeVere on livejournal. It was incredible helpful. I'd put a link, but this site erases it. :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Their relationship was beyond the ken of mortals, the love of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. The truest and deepest emotions of the gods among men were told in subtext, the hidden and barely there, hardly detectable to the ordinary, the boring, the dull.

John, perhaps, was not the best example of an ordinary human being. Sherlock was not a man who would suffer fools- even Anderson, bleeding idiot that he seemed, was quite intelligent. When one stayed around Sherlock long enough, it was possible to forget that the people he interacted with had to be at least competent to get where they were.

Take Molly Hooper, for instance. Sherlock treated her like a little girl, like an ignorant follower, using her for spare body parts and a lab. But she was a Medical Doctor, she worked at St. Barts, she was a _bloody smart woman._ And yet- Sherlock reduced her to ordinary. Sherlock reduced everyone to ordinary.

John was a companion, a friend, the only true friend Sherlock had. He was unique- he craved the danger of Sherlock's life, he held no reservations about expressing his amazement at Sherlock's deductions. That in and of itself was something special- admiration rather than dislike or fear- until Irene Adler.

_"Brainy's the new sexy."_

She had said it with a perfectly innocent expression, completely fooling him. She was just as brainy as he was.

That entire first meeting had been the beginning of a love affair, the likes of which the world had never seen. Of course they hadn't- there weren't very many minds of Sherlock's- or Irene's- caliber. When minds like those met, it was always cataclysmic.

* * *

For Irene, preparation was the work of several days, even weeks. She gathered information about the man, his tastes, what he liked.

Through the newspapers and the blogs, she had discovered a mind that worked in a fascinating counterpart to her own. She could almost feel his brilliance, and reveled in it. She was strangely nervous about their meeting.

The only person she had ever met that was even remotely like herself was James- Jim- Moriarty. Over the phone, surrounded by the assurance and safety of her role as a dominatrix to one of the most important women in Britain, he had made her blood run cold.

James Moriarty terrified her as much as he fascinated her on an intellectual level. She knew, almost instinctively, what he liked. They were so alike, people like Moriarty and Mycroft, her and Sherlock.

Pain. Chaos. The thrill of the game.

Pain, she could appreciate. There was something human in the most exquisite of agony, something she hungered after just as much as Moriarty did. It was something they all had in common- her, Moriarty, the Holmes boys. There was a disconnect from the mundane and natural human outpouring of emotion, the price of a brilliant mind. Pain was alive, pain was universal, but most of all, pain was power. She could appreciate power, she could respect it, and therefore she could respect Moriarty.

Chaos. On that point, they differed. Irene Adler liked to misbehave, but she preferred that chaos be left in her wake. She disliked disorder in her own life, although she enjoyed caused people discomfort. Perhaps that wasn't quite the right wording- Irene Adler enjoyed causing people discomfort when it meant that she could manipulate them to serve her will. Disquieting people for the sake of disquieting people was Moriarty's job- and he was slightly insane. No, Irene preferred careful analysis, and then applied knowledge. She could figure out what made someone tick within minutes of casual conversation, or internet surfing, and then apply her knowledge to make them dance to her tune. Moriarty enjoyed disorder for the fun. Mycroft tirelessly worked against it. Sherlock- and she- caused it.

The thrill of the game. All of them- the pantheon of the great- craved it. Needed it to distract from the horrors of boredom, the sluggish dullness of ordinary life. It was their ambrosia, their honey and nectar. Moriarty liked to cause trouble because Sherlock opposed trouble. Honestly, if Sherlock was inclined to cause trouble, Moriarty would be the one teaming up with the police to stop him. He played the game to pit himself against Sherlock. The only other mind that could match his, that could catch his clues. Irene played a subtler game- the one that was dawning was her most hidden yet. Moriarty occupied himself with the tricks and schemes of the upper echelons of the British government. Sherlock with solving interesting crimes.

They were all alike, the four. Irene, James, Sherlock, and Mycroft.

* * *

He had been sitting on a cream couch, in a sunlit sitting room in Belgravia when he first saw her. Disguised as a vicar with a bleeding face, Sherlock Holmes had lost all thought at the sight of her.

Apparently, she had been planning on it. Her battle-dress, as Irene called it, had been appropriately chosen.

"I was sorry to hear that you'd been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name." The smirk that had graced her face at the sight of his would have enraged him, had he the time to properly process it.

It wasn't Irene Adler's beauty that astounded him- no, although she was beautiful, he had seen legs and breasts and hips before. It was the utter confidence with which she held her body, to be expected in a dominatrix, but still captivating. The tilt of her head, the smile in her eyes, the way her hips swayed and the contrast of white skin and dark hair and red lips. All she was wearing was a pair of black heels, a silver ring on the middle finger of one hand, and a pair of marquise cut diamond earrings.

The words he had been saying died in his throat.

"Don't worry. It's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright. Well, there, now. We're both defrocked. Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She said his name with a lilt and a grin, striding over to him with no compunctions and straddling him in a smooth motion. It was to his credit that his eyes never left her own, even as she pulled away his clerical collar.

It discomforted Sherlock the way his voice dipped down the register when he spoke. "Ms. Adler, I presume."

She barely nodded, more intent on studying his features. "Oh, look at those cheekbones," she crooned. "I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?"

Irene was trying to a reaction out of him, testing the waters. When his features didn't even flicker, she took the collar between her teeth with an audible click.

That was the moment John chose to enter, carrying a bowl of water and a towel. Sherlock felt a surge of almost irrational anger- something that completely surprised him. He didn't normally feel _feelings_- sentiment- but it had been happening lately, with John and Mrs. Hudson. He could rationalize that away, but it in a box that supposed it was evitable having known them and lived with them for months, but to feel a base human emotion over someone he hardly knew- a _woman_- was something completely foreign.

She was gracious, as she walked away, covering herself up in John's presence. The fact that she did move to hide her body belayed the disinterested manner in which she did it.

And while she was doing this, she was engaging in a battle of wits with Sherlock, acknowledging the fact that she had known where he was. Had him followed.

_I have important connections, _Sherlock meant_. I'm here because of the photos. _

_I know. I've been tracking you. I know what role you play in all of this, _countered Irene.

_I know that too. _

Of course, it all went completely over John's head.

She was inscrutable, unreadable.

In other words, a challenge.

He looked to John, reading him accurately and quickly. Then back to her.

Nothing.

And then she proceeded to analyze him in plain view.

"I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself," she told him, eyebrows arched and blue eyes wide.

_How did you do that?_

_I have my ways._

"Somebody loves you," she added, wicked delight in every line of her body. "If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." Her eyes deliberately slid to John, a clear acknowledgement of exactly how Sherlock had obtained the cut on his face.

_Not even five minutes and she knows more about me then I know about her._ Sherlock was as uncomfortable with that realization as John was with Irene's nudity.

At John's plea to cover up, Irene narrowed her eyes and delved into the veteran's mind.

"I don't think he knows where to look," Sherlock said dismissively, rising and offering Irene his coat.

Irene was more focused on John as she stood and sauntered over to him. "No. I think he knows exactly where." Clearly she gleaned something from the blonde man's expression, because she returned her attention to Sherlock, accepting the coat.

"Not sure about you."

She questioned them about the hiker, beginning a battle of wits unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen. He was thankful that she gave him the opportunity to show his particular brand of intelligence.

Sherlock snapped at her. "Stop boring me and _think._ It's the 'new sexy,'" he drawled. Irene obliged, daring him with her eyes to revise her opinion of her as someone who catered the whims of the pathetic and would take her clothes off to make an impression.

The business with the Americans only made the entire affair more interesting. The moment of complete shared understanding with the safe combination roared through him, igniting his bones and mind and body. He was _joyous_, ecstatic, alive. He had outsmarted the Americans, outsmarted her, and saved the day. The rush of adrenaline and the slight ache of his muscles from pistol whipping the American was still alive, and it had been a joy seeing a savage expression on Irene's face as she did the same to the man holding her captive.

Irene tried outsmarting him once more, and failed. His ego inflated.

And then she brutally deflated it, dancing her fingers down his arm with one hand and stabbing him with a syringe with the other.

In that room of darkest blue and ivory, she retrieved her phone, taking fierce pleasure in smacking him, first with her hand and then with her riding crop.

"This is how I want you to remember me," she crooned, caressing his flushed skin with the smooth cool leather. "The woman who beat you."

_No one's ever done that before._

_I'm not just anybody._

In that moment, Sherlock Holmes fell in love.

Not the sappy sweet love of romances and Molly Hooper, the love of pink hearts and kittens and strawberries.

No, it was overwhelming and unsettling and raw, a complete admiration of her mind and rejoicing in the kinship of finding someone like him. There had been Mycroft, growing up. He was starting to get a glimpse of what Moriarty was capable of. But Irene Adler was different… and a woman.

Sherlock was not a man of the baser lusts. He didn't think about sex often, but nor was he ignorant of the pleasures that could be found in a woman's arms. He just didn't need sex- he found it to be distracting and a waste of time, a drain on his mental function. His celibacy was reinforced by his lack of desire- he didn't look a pretty woman and notice her figure, he noticed what she had eaten for breakfast and how many pets she had.

But Sherlock Holmes wanted Irene Adler.

The burn of lust was unsettling, but the keening of the soul for a similar being overpowered him. He craved discussion with her, he wanted to plunder her mind and test her limits. _He wanted to play the game, with her as his opponent. _

The way she solved the accidental murder of the hiker made him burn more. She had a gift different from his- he saw the events, the physical actions. She saw the motivations, the desires, what made people tick.

She had tipped out the window, escaping in only his coat.

The coat that she had returned, with a solved mystery and a personalized text message alert.

* * *

The first few times she texted, he had been flummoxed. He had no idea what to do with a flirting woman. But the game started two full weeks after they had first met.

John was out on a date. Sherlock had decided to eat out- well, decided wasn't quite right. Mrs. Hudson was out, for once he was hungry, and there was no one to cook.

He caught a cab, which took him to _Angelico's. _Sherlock knew the owner- had solved his wife's sisters' case- and always ate free there. (That was the way he had survived for so long before John- he made a point of helping out the food industry and they fed him for free.)

_Angelico's _was a higher class place- perhaps the type of restaurant that Irene Adler would frequent. Sherlock didn't bother denying, in the safety of his own mind, that he was hoping to run into her.

He was seated, ordering without popping open a menu. He was at a small table, just for two, the only one in the restaurant eating alone.

Except for one person.

She was three tables away in a slinky black dress, sipping some kind of alcoholic beverage from a long-stemmed flute. Her hair was up, like it normally was, and diamonds glinted at her ears.

It only took her a moment to notice him. Her eyes widened, and then she smiled, red lips opening to reveal small white teeth.

His eyes didn't leave her own until the food arrived. Her eyes flickered to his dish, and she beckoned a waiter. He brought her the same thing.

They ate together, across the room. He found a strange kind of excitement, watching small bites of chicken disappear between those red lips, tasting his own upon his tongue, knowing that they were experiencing the same thing at the same time.

She ordered dessert first- a chocolate mousse. He wrinkled his nose but did the same- he wasn't typically fond of sweets.

That changed when he watched her enjoy it, curiously tasting the lightness of chocolate in his mouth. She, apparently, loved chocolate. There was something sensual about the duskiness of the makeup around her eyes as she closed them and smiled widely.

Sherlock signed the waiter, and nodded at Irene Adler. "Her tab too, if you will," he said in a low voice.

Although the waiter sneered (like all good English wait-staff) he nodded. "My orders were 'anything for Mr. Holmes,'" he said, and gave a little bow.

He watched as someone told her, nodding once when she acknowledged it with an incline of her own head. He took his coat, and left.

* * *

_I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner. _

Sherlock stared down at his phone, completely confused, then put it away before John could notice and comment. He spun through an extensive list of the restaurants in London, wondering which one she would be at.

_The Golden Spoon. Recent view by food critic Gustave Di'an stated, "Even if you aren't hungry, this place will make you want to have dinner." Text sent at 7:21 AM. The Golden Spoon opened on July 21, if you go by the American system. Place, established. Time?_

The time before, they had seen each other at eight.

Just before eight, he slipped out, throwing an excuse to John that the older man accepted with a sigh, not particularly caring. He had a date with the one with the spots anyway.

When he arrived, Irene Adler was seated at a small table for two near the back. He sat two tables away.

She ordered first that time. They took turns, always getting what the other ordered. He got to choose dessert this time- he wasn't interested in anything in particular, but ordered the mousse for her.

They had conversations with their eyes, with tilts of the head, with a smile or a smirk. It was fun- a game. Not one with life or death stakes, but a game nonetheless.

Sherlock paid her bill again. Irene sighed, looking at him.

_I am rather rich, you know. _

_I know. I don't care. _

_Must you pay?_

_Oblige me. _

_Fine. If you wish. _

The next time was a few days later.

_I'm bored, in a hotel. Join me. Let's have dinner._

It had been satisfying, guessing correctly which hotel she would be at. The restaurant at the hotel was fine enough, but he was more entranced with the play of light and shadow on Irene's skin. The dark atmosphere of the room lent itself to fascinating patterns.

This time, when he left, she followed him outside. She was in purple this time. Her shoulders were bare to the fall winds, and she shivered slightly.

They looked at each other for a long moment, staring into eyes that were so like their own. Irene's were dark blue, almost violet in the lack of light in the street. Sherlock was unaware that his eyes had taken a greenish cast, darker than they normally were as well.

In a sudden movement, he bent down and kissed her firmly. He was no stranger to kissing (mostly deleted experiments from uni), but pulled away quickly, turning and walking away. There was a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

He had made the first move- Irene had not expected that. She had envisioned many long dinners and talks before he would be secure enough around her to show affection. She had almost assumed that she would have to be the one to introduce the physical into their- well, it was a kind of relationship.

It was so like him to kiss her first just because she thought it would be her duty.

She smiled and stopped herself from brushing her lips with her fingertips. She wanted the imprint of him to remain there for as long as it could.

_John's blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let's have dinner. _

Sherlock 'confiscated' John's computer as soon as he could, hastily pulling up the doctor's blog. The last entry had mentioned a small Greek restaurant they had visited a few days ago for a case. It made him happy that she was following his cases.

She was there, as usual, at eight sharp. This time, they sat one table away, separated by an old couple who were speaking French. It was a bit harder to see what she was ordering, but he managed, as usual, utilizing his powers of deduction to figure out exactly what it was.

The food was good, but he was more concerned with Irene Adler.

After dinner, he didn't immediately signal a cab and leave for Baker Street. Instead, he waited for her in the shadows of the building.

She emerged moments later, looking around for him. With a rise of smug happiness, he realized that she was disappointed that she couldn't find him.

He stepped out of the shadows, and cleared his throat. "Ms. Adler," he said, voice hardly a rumble in his chest.

"Mr. Holmes," she responded, his favorite wicked smile on her face. She stepped closer to him, and he looked down at her face, his own expression impassive.

It was her turn.

She stretched up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his gently, teasingly. Then, without warning, she sucked his bottom lip between hers and bit him lightly. Immediately, his arms went around her shoulders and waist, crushing her to him as they both moved to deepen the kiss. Her hands moved to around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

They kissed passionately for a moment more, and then Irene drew away. "Until the next time, Mr. Holmes," she said, blowing him a kiss before darting away.

_I can see the tower bridge and moon from my room. Work out where I am and join me. _

He was in the lab, but thankfully Molly Hooper was performing an autopsy in the other room and was therefore unable to see him.

_No invitation to dinner this time,_ he mused. _What does she want?_ That provided several interesting images, which he examined in his head for a while before turning the question on himself. _What do I want? _Typically, the idea of sex was nearly repulsive to him. It was just the frenzied and ignoble slapping of flesh, the loss of dignity for a few moments of mindless lust and the spilling of seed.

For a moment, Sherlock allowed himself to image what sex with Irene might be like. His vivid imagine supplied perfectly preserved images of her naked body, and the text alert sound from his phone.

And for some reason, it didn't seem like it would be so bad.

It was the work of moments to figure out where she was staying. He returned to the house, took a shower, and dressed carefully. It was strangely reminiscent of the anticipation before their first meeting.

The text had been sent at 2:21 in the afternoon. He took the elevator to the second floor, and found room 221. He knocked twice, sharply.

She opened the door- she had been waiting for him. He sucked in a breath- she was half-dressed in a kind of lacy green thing, with a deep lace-lined vee in the front that dipped to her waist. The rest of the material was sheer, allowing him to see all her curves. Her hair was down, and her face free of makeup. She was even more beautiful in a way- her features weren't exaggerated by colors, but were still captivating. He supposed he was drawn to the way she seemed to be letting him in- he suspected there were very few people who had even seen Irene Adler without makeup of some kind.

"Mr. Holmes," she said in greeting, her eyes fixed on his.

"Ms. Adler," he responded, and paused for a moment. "Are you going to invite me inside?"

She cocked her head, considering. "Is it what you want?"

Sherlock stepped in close, so close that their chests were almost brushing. "I know what I want."

"Very well," she said, voice hardly a breath.

That night was seared into Sherlock's memory as a melding of flesh and mind, a supreme cohesion of body and spirit, the likes of which he had never known.

It was the first time he had crushed the soft, rounded curves of a woman's nude body to the hard planes of his own with a passion that made it seem as if they were going to fuse into one. It was the first time he had ardently kissed someone who responded with just as much fervor. It was the first time he had given in completely to desire.

She was everything to him- red lips that left marks on his skin, elegant hands that scratched lines down his back, indigo eyes that only left his when her back arched and her head tilted back with pleasure.

He took obscene delight in learning to play her body like he played his violin. He committed every sigh and moan and intake of breath to his memory, finding the tender spots on her neck, the particular section of spine that made her shiver, the pressure at which his fingertips dragged along his sides made her gasp.

In return, she used her extensive knowledge to make him insensate, all though processes reduced to her hands, or her breasts, or her body. He had thought that this narrowed focus, the drowning out of all higher thought, was what made sex degrading.

He was wrong.

"You are more than I could have ever imagined," he told her in a groan, letting his head hang down as he moved over her.

Her arms twined around his neck, and her eyes widened. "It isn't always like this."

"It's you," he agreed. "Only ever you."

They didn't talk more.

After they were done, still struck from the absolute pleasure, they fell asleep. She was curled on her side, and he curved around her, protective.

In the morning, he woke her with tentative kisses to her shoulder and neck. It was all new to him- he had never woken intertwined with a woman, a woman who he respected, a woman who consumed him entirely.

"John will be missing me," he mused, voice a rumble that made her purr in response. "I must go."

"If you must," Irene said with a sigh. "A proper kiss before you go, then."

He obliged.

* * *

Irene Adler stared down the street at where John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were walking. John was struggling slightly to keep up with Sherlock's energetic pace and longer legs, a slight frown on his worn face. Sherlock, on the other hand, wore the second-most intense expression she had ever seen on his face.

_His hand between their bodies as he stared down at her._

_His face as he fought his own instincts to bring her along with him. _

She hesitated, then followed them, carefully. It wouldn't do for John to see her and Sherlock together.

"It's quite _simple_, John! As ever you see but-"

"I don't observe or comprehend, I get it, Sherlock. What exactly about the right shirttail of the man makes him the murder? You're going to need to give Lestrade more than that." John's voice was full of stressed affection. It made Irene smile, knowing that the abrasive genius had someone in his life who cared. Someone to watch over him.

Sherlock let out an aggrieved sigh, and went on an impressive monologue that apparently only made sense to him and Irene. John struggled vainly to grasp how, exactly, the brand of shirt and the brand of tobacco one smokes is connected, but eventually admitted defeat.

Listening to Sherlock's annoyed yet still patient (normally he wouldn't explain once, let alone twice) tone while talking to John suddenly hurt her. She turned abruptly, walking in the opposite direction.

_What do I know about Sherlock Holmes? _

_He observes people, makes a study out of them like a scientist with a zoo. He studies their habits, their idiosyncrasies, the expressions they make. _

_He imitates them. _

_Sherlock goes through the motions, but doesn't quite grasp how the emotional side of everything is connected to what they do. He only has a basic knowledge of human connections, from what he can glean from conversations and books and what is expected. Sherlock Holmes does not understand the why- he understands the who, the what, the when, the where, the how. But not the why. _

_And yet, that is not to say he cannot have human relationships. He has a brother- but he only tolerates Mycroft. I highly doubt that whatever affection Sherlock has for Mycroft Holmes is greater than simply the familiarity that comes with knowing someone your entire life. _

_John. There's John. They're an old married couple, him and John. They care about each other, they live off one another. They need each other- that's a definition of a couple if I've ever seen one. For Sherlock to function- to remember to sleep and eat and not need drugs- there needs to be John. He's a stabilizer. As for John, Sherlock gives him someone to live for. John craves excitement, and yet, is mostly a rational creature. He's loyal, but he needs someone to be loyal to. They're perfect for each other. _

_Lucky for me John isn't gay. They're relationship is loving, but it isn't sexual. _

_And ours is._

Irene would admit that sex had been bloody amazing. Celibate he may be (had been), but Sherlock knew what went where.

But perhaps the best part of their- she supposed it really was a relationship now- was after the sex. Where they would share a cigarette or two and talk for hours. She admired the way he could stay awake for days on end. On the nights he visited her, they hardly ever slept. The exception had been the first time.

Their conversation covered almost every topic except that of Moriarty. Childhood was fair game. His problem with drugs. Her problem with drugs. Their travels. New theories in various fields. Literature. She educated him on the solar system, and he taught her how to recognize a pilot by his right thumb.

_If I'm not careful, I may very well fall in love with him._

When she returned to her hotel room, she texted Sherlock quickly.

_I saw you on the street today. You didn't see me._

When Sherlock appeared at room 221B at eight o'clock sharp, he appeared distressed.

"I saw you," he blurted out as soon as she opened the door. "I noticed you."

Irene couldn't stop the shock from showing on her face. "I was sure you hadn't."

"I'll always notice you," he said, the intensity in his face turning the statement into a promise.

She reached up, curving her hand to his face and stretching up to kiss him deeply. He responded with a tenderness that surprised her again, a tenderness that made her want to hold him and cry.

That night, he was gentle with her. He traced every line with his fingertips, as if he was tracing the outline of a soap bubble. She understood what he was trying to say- she was fragile, he knew, and he would be careful. That he wasn't sure where it all was going, but he cared.

When he finally entered her, her face was half-wet with tears and the sighs she let out sounded more like sobs. She kissed him with a fierce need, and he replied in kind.

"What are you doing to me?" she asked, shuddering.

He gazed down at her, caressing her skin. "Memorizing you," he responded truthfully. "Building you a room in my mind palace."

"Remember me forever," she begged, pleaded like she never did in real life. But this, whatever it was she had with Sherlock, didn't seem like real life. It was a dream world, where she could exist and breathe and _live_ and there was someone else doing it all with her.

"Forever," Sherlock repeated, ducking to suck at her neck.

* * *

_You do know that hat actually suits you, don't you?_

That text led to a particularly fun hunt through a series of department stores, as he chased down her clues and met her for dinner in an outfit she picked out for him. She had always though that he would look rather dashing in a grey suit, and he did.

_Oh for God's sake, let's have dinner._

He met her in a Japanese restaurant across from a church. That one had taken some working out- he was enjoying their game more and more with each text.

_I like your funny hat. _

He showed up at her hotel room in the suit she had picked out, and she undressed him slowly. He did the same, covering her body with kisses and memorizing each detail. He had painted a thousand nudes of her in his head, hung them in her growing suite of rooms in his mind palace.

_I'm in Egypt talking to an idiot. Get on a plane. Let's have dinner. _

He couldn't actually get on a plane, but he met her at the airport when she returned. They had locked eyes across the terminal, saying what they needed to say, and then he left. When she returned to her hotel room, there was a bowl of mousse in the fridge and a note saying, _Talking to idiots leaves a bad taste in my mouth. _– SH

_You looked sexy on Crimewatch._

Sherlock had worn the suit she got him for the pictures. He smiled smugly when he saw the text. Irene had laughed when she saw the special. She teased him about it later, and he had threatened to use her own riding crop on her.

_Even you have got to eat. Let's have dinner. _

She had patiently waited until his current case was over- this one had lasted for five days, and even with John's expert prodding Irene fully expected that Sherlock had completely forgotten to eat. It was true- when the met later, she had given up on keeping up with his frantic pace.

_BBC1 right now. You'll laugh._

She stopped laughing a few minutes after she sent the text, when she got the phone call from Moriarty.

"Hello, my dear. How goes things in the world of the professional dominatrix?"

She had laughed lightly. "Weaving my web, whipping a few sprightly young things."

"And with the Virgin?"

"I suspect that after our encounter, he is firmly ensnared. I've been stringing him along." She kept her voice disinterested.

"Lovely, lovely. But I grow impatient, and so do my friends in the Middle East. When will you have the code deciphered?"

Irene tapped her long red fingernails on the wood of the desk. "My plans take time, Jim. My MOD man said that nothing would happen until spring. You'll have it by then."

"Remember, my darling. Your skin tone lends itself to a rather delicious pair of loafers."

Irene shuddered, and hung up. She resisted the temptation to throw her phone at the wall, setting it down carefully before burying her head in her hands and crying.

Of course, Sherlock noticed the signs right away. "What's wrong?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"Promise me something," she said, pressing his hand to her chest. "Remember me. Memorize me. Every detail."

The furrow deepened, but he nodded. "I promise."

She kissed him. "Best get started, then."

* * *

Irene looked at the photos of the girl who was now her body double in almost every way. There was a rather fabulous plastic surgeon in Egypt who had obligingly provided her with a junkie that looked exactly like her, except for a few small details.

The face would be ruined completely, so that wouldn't matter. But this man was a master at the smaller details, the freckles, the shading. She knew what he liked. He knew that she had exactly thirty-seven freckles and moles, and had placed thirty-eight of them on her body double.

One extra, over the heart.

Irene supposed it was heartless, looking at the pictures of the girl and knowing that she was going to die soon. But she didn't care- Irene was going to die soon as well. She needed to disappear.

She pulled out her phone and texted Sherlock.

_I'm thinking of sending you a Christmas present._

* * *

Sherlock let his lips brush the powdery flushed cheek of Molly Hooper, a small twinge of embarrassment flicking through him. He hadn't meant to mock her (yes he had) and he hadn't meant for it to turn out this way (John was giving him the 'disappointed' look again he hated that).

His phone let out a particular sound he was incredibly fond of, and he pulled back hurriedly.

"Oh- no! It's wasn't me!" Molly gasped.

"No- it was me," Sherlock said, reaching into his jacket pocket and ignoring Lestrade.

John peered up at him curiously. "Fifty… seven, was it?"

"Thrilling that you've been counting," Sherlock retaliated quickly, glancing at the text.

_Mantelpiece._

There, on the mantelpiece, was a small box, wrapped in red paper and tied with a black cord. He knew for a fact it was the exact color of her favorite shade of lipstick (Pomegranate Temptation) and the cord was a silky black thing that made him think of her, spread eagle on a bed, wrists tied to the headboard.

_They had taken turns. She had her way with him, and he had his way with her. It had been fun. They had agreed to do it again sometime, but hadn't quite gotten around to it._

He fled to his room, a growing sense of excitement and dread growing in him. The last time had seen Irene, she shoved him down and rode him furiously, leaving marks on his chest and neck that had been nearly impossible to hide from John and Mrs. Hudson.

There, in the box, was her camera phone.

It was a strange sense of his entire world crashing down on him, while everything remained exactly the same. He knew it was because the grief would be his and his alone. Mycroft would be glad to be rid of The Woman, and John and Mrs. Hudson had no idea what was going on. Everything would change, and yet, everything would remain exactly the same.

He had to be sure, though. He had to be one hundred percent sure before he lost his mind to mourning. He could feel the oncoming storm, the fury and rage and sorrow that was beginning to build in the deepest recesses of his mind.

Sherlock clenched his fists and slowed his breathing. _I need to be sure. Mycroft would know, or he could find out._

* * *

In the morgue, he asked Molly Hooper to show him the rest of her. _Don't let it be her, don't let it be her, don't let it be Irene._

Molly pulled the sheet down to the corpse's hips, and Sherlock scanned the body.

_32, 24, 34. Small scar on the skin covering the fifth rib. Moles on the curve of the right hip, under the ribcage, and- no. She doesn't have a freckle there. But- what did she say? Memorize me. Every detail. She wanted me to know her inside and out so when I saw the body I would know. But only me. Why?_

"It's her," he said curtly, spinning on his heel and leaving the morgue.

Molly Hooper's timid voice echoed behind him. "How did he recognize her from… not her face?"

He missed Mycroft's reply, waiting for his brother to find him in the corridor.

_Irene needed to disappear. That was what everything that happened earlier was all about. She's alive. She just needs everyone to think she's dead. It must have something to do with something dangerous._

_Why didn't she tell me?_

_She did, in a way. _

The sudden rush of fear for her safety didn't surprise him. He knew he cared for her. It would be the same for John or Mrs. Hudson.

To calm himself, he accepted Mycroft's offer of a cigarette.

"This is _low _tar," he said with disgust.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Well, you barely knew her."

_If only you knew, Mycroft, _Sherlock thought bitterly. _Until we meet again, Irene Adler._

* * *

Even though she wasn't dead, Sherlock composed in Irene's honor. He called the haunting melody "Irene's Lament" and wrote it with the pain he had felt when he had thought she was dead, the look on her face when she told him to remember her, the tears she thought he hadn't seen. All the while he tried to solve the mystery, to figure out what was so big that she needed to hide.

John and Mrs. Hudson were concerned about him- he wasn't eating, hardly talking. He had a case to work out- what would make Irene Adler fake her own death.

Naturally he was suspicious when John left in a black car. Mycroft was in Greece, working on some crisis. _Perhaps... I should go along just to be sure._

He followed John to the abandoned shell of the Battersea Power Station. Irene looked out of place there, beauty surrounded by desolation.

John was furious on Sherlock's behalf, and he felt a warm rise of affection for his friend.

"Tell him you're alive," John half-ordered, half-begged.

Irene's eyes darted to where Sherlock was concealed in the shadows. "He'd come after me," she said, voice hesitant. _Don't come after me. _

"I'll come after you if you don't," warned John.

Again, she looked at Sherlock. "I believe you," she said. _He's good, this one. I trust you, Sherlock. _

Confusion won out over John's rage. "You were dead on a slab," he said, baffled. "It was definitely you."

"DNA is only as good as the records you keep," Irene replied.

"And I'll bet you know the record keeper," connected John, with a sigh.

Irene shrugged. "I know what he likes," she admitted. "And I needed to disappear." _I was desperate, Sherlock, or I wouldn't have done it._

"Then how come I can see you, and I don't even want to?" John asked, throwing his arms up.

She had enough. "Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping, and now I need it back, so I need your help." _My camera phone, Sherlock. Is it safe with you? With John?_

Sherlock didn't pay attention to the rest of the conversation, until she started reading her texts to him to John. That felt… odd.

Amusingly, John was rather aghast. "You… _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?"

Irene was still looking down at her phone. "At him. He never replies." _You don't need to, do you, Sherlock dear?_

That confused John. "No, Sherlock always replies. To everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

Irene laughed bitterly. "Does that make me special?"

Watching from the shadows, Sherlock wanted to scream it out. _Yes. You are special. You are The Woman. Mine._

However, John wasn't so clear on the subject. "I don't know," he said with another heavy sigh. "Maybe."

"Are you jealous?" Irene asked, meeting John's eyes. She didn't look at Sherlock- this was her perfect opportunity to study John's view on his and Sherlock's relationship.

John frowned. "We're not a couple," he insisted, dodging the question neatly.

"Yes, you are," Irene countered nonchalantly, glancing down at her phone again. Without giving him any time to reply, she held it up. "There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'" She pushed the send button.

It didn't distract John. He stared at her, then sighed. "Who- who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but- for the record- if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I _am_." Irene met the soldier's eyes. "Look at us both."

_I thought I could only be attracted to women. John thinks he is only attracted to women. Is Sherlock changing his sexuality, like Sherlock changed mine?_

_No. They may love each other, but John doesn't think of Sherlock that way. Yet. _

As John laughed ruefully, a sigh echoed through the room. Her sigh. John started, moving in the direction of the text alert. Irene held out a hand to stop him. "I don't think so. Do you?" she asked gently.

* * *

Irene waited half an hour to order dinner, willing herself not to blush in anger or shame. To the restaurant, it looked like someone had stood her up. Sherlock had stood her up.

It wasn't that the game was too complicated for him- this choice of restaurant had been particularly simple and not especially clever- no, Sherlock Holmes knew where she was, waiting for him, and had decided not to come.

She ordered something small, and decided against dessert. She was angry, upset, and hurt- she wanted to get home to her hotel room and hide.

Considering the fact that Irene Adler was supposed to be dead, she had taken quite a risk showing her face. All for a man who wouldn't bother to come, after finding out she wasn't dead.

Perhaps he was angry with her.

Irene chose to walk to the hotel, having chosen a restaurant within walking distance so that she and Sherlock wouldn't have had to take a cab. She was turning the entire afternoon over in her mind, and slightly regretting the outfit she had worn. It looked stunning, but she was cold, even with her fur coat.

Her phone buzzed.

_Happy New Year. – SH _

Irene smiled broadly. He hadn't forgotten her- there must have been something he couldn't escape without someone noticing. Or something had happened- a case, maybe. She would check the news when she returned to the hotel.

* * *

Two weeks later, Irene left England. It was too dangerous for her there. America was safer.

When she reached her hotel room, there was a glass bowl full of chocolate mousse in the fridge, with a note attached. _Until we meet again. – SH_

* * *

**And so ends Part One. Part Two will be up as soon as I write it.**

**If you want me to explain anything, I'm on tumblr. Find my blog on my author's page. Message there. If you just want to comment, leave a review. :)**

**Thank you for reading! The next part will follow soon!**


	2. Part Two

**This got insanely longer than I had ever planned. About thirty pages longer. And while busy with endless things, I still managed to finish this monster, with plenty of inspiration from the beautiful Sherlock/Irene images on tumblr. **

**Thanks to those who reviewed. There weren't many of you, but I love all four of you brilliant, wonderful people. Hugs!**

**It's long, but I think it's good. Of course, it's always nice to get a review letting you know that. Enjoy!**

* * *

It was an unusually chilly June day the next time Sherlock and Irene saw each other.

Sherlock was arriving home- he had been meeting with members of his homeless network- when he smelled something in the air. The flat smelled like a shower- warm water and curiously enough, his particular brands of soap and shampoo.

Apprehensive, he approached his bedroom- his shower was through there.

_The window is open. Who is it, that I know, who is an expert at getting in and out of houses using the windows? Is she back?_

In the background, he could hear John arrive with the shopping. Softly, he pushed open the door to his bedroom.

There, curled up in his blankets and wearing an old green shirt, was Irene Adler. Her hair was damp, and she looked terribly tired, even though she was sleeping. Her skin was paler than he had ever seen it, and she looked thinner. Sherlock was floored by the rush of sentiment that ran through him at the sight of Irene in his bed. She looked as if she belonged there. He didn't mind that his pillow was wet with her hair, or that she had washed using his soap. The thought of her in the shower brought back fond memories.

John noticed where he was standing, just looking into his room. "Sherlock?"

"We have a client," he said in a low voice, trying not to wake her.

The soldier's forehead furrowed in confusion. "What, in your bedroom?" He approached, carrying a bottle of wine to peer into Sherlock's bedroom. "Oooh."

Sherlock pulled the door closed. "Let her sleep," he ordered, walking away. "We should make some tea." Despite his words, he sat in his chair, staring off deep in thought. John sighed and started the kettle.

Apparently, the sounds of John putting away the shopping woke Irene. She emerged from Sherlock's room a short time later, blinking owlishly. Sherlock stood immediately, striding into the kitchen and getting out the better teacups. He made hers the way she liked it, handing it to her. She sat down in his chair, eyes not leaving his.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said huskily, sipping from the cup.

He inclined his head. "No thanks are necessary, Ms. Adler."

* * *

"I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand," Irene informed Sherlock, crossing her arms. _Sorry, dear. Not going to work on me._

He stared intensely at her. "Oh, you're rather good." _I couldn't help but try._

"You're not so bad," she countered. _I know. I would have done the same… but I would have succeeded._

Their eyes met, and it was like she couldn't pull away. His face as so austere, so drawn, so closed, but his eyes told her he remembered every kiss, every embrace.

_I missed you._

_I missed you too._

_I'm sorry._

_Why?_

_Things are going to get bad. Really soon. It'll be my fault._

_I don't care._

_I care about you._

_I care about you too. _

_Thank you._

_For?_

_Memorizing me._

_Anything for you._

It was strange- all the other times she had stared into those blue-green eyes, she had either been a room away or close up. Either they were maintaining eye contact during dinner, or in the throes of passion. He had never been so close, and yet so far away.

"Hamish." John's voice blurted, breaking the moment. The lovers turned to look at him, and then away from each other, slightly embarrassed. "John Hamish Watson," the doctor clarified. "Just- if you were looking for baby names."

Sherlock frowned, and Irene hid her smile. "There was a man- and MOD official. I knew what he liked." She walked a short distance, away, tapping SHER quickly into her phone. She scrolled through her images until she found the one she wanted.

"One of the things he liked was showing off," she continued. "He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it." She hesitated before handing the phone to Sherlock.

_Once I do this, I'm committed. It's the beginning of the end. The game is drawing to a close, but Sherlock doesn't have a clue he's playing. _

_Is it wrong for me to feel so excited? I'm half full of dread, but half full of anticipation and excitement. I'm this close to pulling it all off…_

She let out a shaky breath and handed the phone to the genius, purposefully making sure their hands did not brush. "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen- can you read it?"

Sherlock paid her no attention, sliding into his seat and focusing on the image. "Yes," he murmured, distracted.

"It's a code, obviously," Irene said, coming closer to him. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it- though he was mostly upside down as I recall. Couldn't figure it out." She took a breath, and leaned over his shoulder. "What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" She made a split second decision to kiss his cheek. She wanted her lips on him one last time before everything- died. "Go on. Impress a girl."

"There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds."

Irene hadn't even fully straightened yet, from bending down to brush his slightly rough face with her lips.

"Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look: there's no letter 'I' because it can be mistaken for a '1'; no letters past 'K' – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter 'K' or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you, lately, that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport." He said it all in one breath, standing in the middle. He looked down at Irene, who was staring in shock.

Sherlock gave a brief sneer. _You doubted me?_ "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."

His eyes pulled hers again, but now she was thinking of other things. His hands on her. Her hands on him. Their mouths, together. Their mouths doing interesting things, not together. "I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."

_I want you._

_I should deduce more in front of you._

_Yes, you should. _

_Would it get me ravished?_

_Yes._

He didn't look away from her, and said something to John.

_We've never had sex on a table._

_Now that I've said it, we'll have to try._

_I want you on the table. _

_I said I would have you on this desk. _

"I've never begged for mercy in my life," Sherlock said, in a near whisper. _Not even when you tied me to the bed and tortured me with your mouth. _

Irene gave him an enigmatic smirk. "Twice." _My dear, you haven't even seen a third of what I'm capable of._

_What I'm capable of. _

_I want to be rid of the devil I sold my soul to. Now it's time for me make the final payment. I'll be free and Sherlock- he'll be upset, but alive. _

_And I will be free and rich- although that doesn't matter so much. The game will be concluded. The game- it is our fatal flaw. We sacrifice all for the game. _

She texted Jim Moriarty the information, and felt a small part of her heart break while her pulse raced with excitement.

* * *

It was terrible, the waiting game. She had her black dress in Sherlock's closet, and she just needed to wait until he was picked up to change and get ready. She missed Kate at a time like this- not only was she a professional makeup artist, she was also quite good at calming Irene down.

Sherlock was sitting staring into space and plucking his violin. Every few minutes or so, he would blurt something out. Irene had never seen him work a case before- it was fascinating.

The firelight brought out Sherlock's gorgeous cheekbones. His face, his body- his entire being called to her on a primal level. She both wanted to burst into tears, and rage at him. She did neither. The biggest game of her life was only a few hours away. She needed to be able to make Mycroft Holmes dance, and keep Sherlock Holmes effectively in the dark.

And find a way to apologize. Perhaps- they had always been so good at reading each other. It was worth a shot. But she thought Sherlock would understand- they were so alike. He understood the vital drive, the almost imperative need to fight off the boredom. The temptation of such a complex game, with such high stakes. He wouldn't be able to resist it.

"Coventry," he said, voice like velvet.

Irene started when she realized he was expecting a reply. "I've never been. Is it nice?"

Sherlock frowned at her and looked around. "Where's John?" _Are we alone?_

"He went out a couple of hours ago," Irene told him, watching his face carefully. _Yes. But our time is limited._

"I was just talking to him," Sherlock muttered, confused and knowing exactly what had happened at the same time. _Sorry for blanking on you._

She couldn't help but smile at the expression on his face. "He said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?" _All is forgiven. Explain?_

Sherlock explained. "It's a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway." _I'm not sure exactly what is going on, Irene. But- I have a theory._

_He knows. He's figured it out. How do I tell him that it was me?_

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene asked, almost desperately. _Had. Owned. Possessed. Loved. Have you ever loved anyone, Sherlock?_

"Sorry?" He frowned at her blankly, mind still on the Coventry conundrum.

She begged him to understand. "And when I say 'had,' I'm being indelicate." _Please, Sherlock._

"I don't understand," he said slowly, frown deepening. He wanted to, she could see it.

Irene sighed, and stood. "Well, I'll be delicate then." She walked around to where he was sitting and kneeled in front of him, turning her face up to his. She put her left hand over his right, curling her fingers around his. "Let's have dinner."_Remember us. Remember all the good times. The communal eating, the forging of a bond. Remember our strange courtship, Sherlock._

Something sparked in him. "Why?" he asked. _Why? I'd remember it anyway. Why now?_

"Might be hungry," Irene replied. _Because it might have meant something to me, but nothing to you. Do you want something else? Something more? Do we need to reaffirm our connection?_

"I'm not," Sherlock said, confusion gone. _No. Don't doubt me, Irene. _

"Good," Irene said, relief not evident in her tone. _We are good then. Remember that I care for you, Sherlock. _

"Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" Sherlock breathed, staring down at her. _Why is this important, Irene? What is happening? _

She leaned forward, thinking about kissing him. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," she said softly, shuddering as Sherlock's fingers stroked the underside of her wrist. "If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?" _It all ends today. Tonight. The last night before everything is different. But will it be? Can you still care about me after? Would you be able to look through the game and see me?_

He was about to reply, when Mrs. Hudson called him. "Sherlock!" His eyes slid away from hers, and she pulled way with a fluidity that belayed her anger and sorrow.

"Too late," she whispered ruefully.

They were here to take Sherlock away- it was time for the final play of the game.

* * *

Irene Alder, The Woman, didn't need a steadying breath as she climbed the staircase to the aircraft. The designer dress and the wonderfully done makeup were a kind of battle armor in themselves- dressed like this, she had no problems remembering why she was here, what the final goal was. She took great pleasure in blowing a kiss to Nelson, the American who had attacked her in her house. "Feeling better?" she asked, sickly sweet.

He scowled at her. "No," he growled. "Are you going up, lady?"

Irene raised a regal eyebrow. "Yes, I am. Mr. Holmes is expecting me."

She entered just in time to hear Mycroft ask Sherlock how long it took him to decode the message for her. She emerged from the shadows, a curve of a smile on her face. "I think it was less than five seconds."

Sherlock spun around, eyes meeting hers and widening with the realization. _This was a game. I was tricked. It was- you. _

_I'm sorry. But- it was the game._

"I drove you into her path," Mycroft said wearily. "I'm sorry. I- didn't know."

It was harder than she thought to slide her eyes away from Sherlock. She couldn't do it- even as she addressed Mycoft.

"Mr. Homes, I think we need to talk." She walked toward the two of them, dreading the moment where Sherlock realized she wasn't talking to him.

"So do I," Sherlock said, entire expression denoting a complete lack of understanding, a slow boiling anger. "There are a number of aspect's I'm still not quite clear on-"

She was approaching him, and she brushed past him, letting her hand drag across his leg in a silent apology. "No you, Junior. You're done now." She strode down the narrow corridor between the seats of the airplane. She took out her phone and with a flourish, waved it in front of Mycroft.

"There's more… loads more," she told him, voice rich with promise. This was the bait- the drawing in. "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures, and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I could cause and exactly one way to stop me…" she let her voice trail. This was the fear, and the hope. She was telling Mycroft that there was a chance to stop her. "Unless you want to tell you masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother." The final fear.

He would have to comply with her demands now- she could read a man like Mycroft like a book and play him accordingly. He needed the information she had on her phone- and he wanted to protect his country. He wanted to stop her for that reason. But the deal-maker was his little brother- Mycroft Holmes was many things, but he had a sense of duty toward Sherlock. He wouldn't break that duty. She knew that- and had made sure that he would be the one to bring her and Sherlock together. It was his fault. He was the one who had to make it right. He knew this, and she knew this, and he could no longer meet her eyes.

* * *

So close. She was so close.

They were in Mycroft's enormous building, where she and Mycroft were seated at an immense dining table. All around were pieces of wealth and luxury, features that both made Irene feel powerful, and insignificant. But now was not the time for doubts- this would be the best game of her life, if she played it right.

Mycroft was running various scenarios aloud, all of which she shot down.

"We have people who can get into this," he remarked, gesturing toward the camera phone lying on the table between them. His voice was flat, calm.

"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes have it for six months." Irene glanced over at where Sherlock sat, staring into the fire, slightly angled to listen to them. "Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you X-rayed my camera phone." That little timid thing- Molly Hooper- had been delightfully informative.

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive." Sherlock's voice was the same as his brother's- quiet, inflectionless. Irene felt a small squirming of guilt in her gut when she thought about how she had hurt him.

"Explosive," she drawled, looking back at Mycroft, who had looked down wearily at the new information. "It's more me."

"Some data is always recoverable," he amended, raising his head.

"Take that risk," Irene told him, knowing he could not.

Mycroft hesitated, then spoke. "You have a passcode to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can… extract it from you."

Although those words sent a shiver of fear down Irene's spine, she merely called, "Sherlock?" in a lilting voice.

"There will be two passcodes, one to open the phone and one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there would be no point in a second attempt." Sherlock rattled off the information in a breath.

It honored Irene that Sherlock would apply to her what he would do. It was a symbol of his regard for her. He was literally thinking, _what would I do?_ and telling Mycroft what he had surmised.

"He's good, isn't he?" Irene said rhetorically. _Thank you, Sherlock. You're right- you always are._ "I should have him on a leash- in fact, I might." _Are you mine? Do you still belong to me?_ She stared at him, but he was turned away from her and he probably couldn't see.

"We destroy this then. No one has the information," Mycroft suggested, just as she had suspected he would. Mycroft liked to sweep thing under the rug.

She shrugged, giving him a wide-eyed, innocent blink. "Fine. Good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

"Are there?" Mycroft made the foolish mistake of letting hope leak through his voice.

Irene smirked. "Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing anymore." That was a lie- she was playing the game. She had made the winning move, had allowed Mycroft to examine every out possible and admit himself checkmated. Now it was time for her to reap her rewards. She reached into her purse and withdrew an envelope with a list her demands, sliding it across the table to Mycroft.

"A list of my requests, and some ideas about my protection once they're granted," she informed him, pushing back the growing heady rush of success that was beginning to dawn on her. "I'd day it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation- but then I'd be lying." Mycroft had opened the envelope, and was either overwhelmed by her demands or allowing himself to show shock and surprise in an attempt to sway her. She guessed it was the later, and decided to play him.

"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it," she suggested.

"Thank you, yes," Mycroft said, a bit relieved, regaining some power. If he had time, he could work something out.

"Too bad," she said quickly. From Sherlock's armchair, she heard a soft snort of amusement that made her want to smile. "Off you pop and talk to people."

It was almost cruel, she reflected, the way she enjoyed dangling hope in front of this powerful, intelligent man and yanking it away with vicious delight. The way Mycroft deflated back into his chair made her feel powerful. Reckless.

"You've been very… thorough," Mycroft said, a sneer evident in his tone. "I wish our lot were half as good as you."

She inclined to head, acknowledging the compliment. She was a lady, and she did have graces. "I can't take all the credit…" she said, readying herself for the revelation. "Had a bit of help."

Irene glanced over at Sherlock. "Jim Moriarty sends his love." _This is why I did this, Sherlock._ His head raised perceptibly- he was thinking now.

"Yes, he's been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention…" Mycroft's face darkened. "Which I'm sure can be arraigned." If Moriarty had been any other man, Irene might have feared for his life. As it was, she didn't particularly care if Moriarty survived, nor was she certain that even a man with the power of Mycroft Holmes could stop him.

To shake the sudden uneasiness that was causing an antsy feeling in the palms of her hands and her legs, Irene stood and walked around the table to Mycroft, sitting on the edge as she spoke. "I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal." _No I hate him he gives me the creeps. _"Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys." _I'll admit that I did play you, Sherlock. _"D'you know what he calls you?" Irene met and kept Mycroft's eyes. "The Iceman," she said, voice lowering. Abruptly, she turned her head to look at Sherlock. "And the Virgin." _See. I didn't tell him about us._

She closed her eyes briefly, refusing to give in to the memories of strong hands and muscled backs. "Didn't even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man." _He had another agenda- he wouldn't normally do something like this for free._

"And here you are," Mycroft said bitterly. "The dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees." He stood, and gave a jerky half-bow. "Nicely played." There was a weariness to the lines of his body, as he turned away in defeat.

The rush of victory crashed over Irene, almost comparable to the heady sensations Sherlock could cause in her with one look, or a single fingertip. The juxtaposition soured the win- in an overwhelming instant, she reflected on what she had to lose, here, where she was supposed to be bulletproof.

"No."

The rough, fatal word sliced through her, bringing with it a surge of fear.

"Sorry?" she asked, even as Mycroft's face lightened with hope. In that moment she cursed Sherlock, damned him, raged against him. In the next, she found herself in awe. There was something coming, something brilliant, something that would take her beautifully crafted plan and shatter it into worthless shards at her feet. She could feel in thrumming through her body- she was over, done for, and yet, it hadn't happened yet.

In his armchair, seated but still the focus of the room, Sherlock turned his head toward them, face twisted in a sort of sneer. "I said no. Very, very close, but no."

_I'm done for_, Irene thought.

Sherlock rose swiftly and fluidly, stalking toward her. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much." _You didn't plan for me, Irene. I'm more than you could have known. And you made a mistake. _

"No such thing as too much," she replied, on reflex. _Dear gods, Sherlock, don't do this to me._

He came even closer to her, eyes impassive from his height. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize entirely. But sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."_ I know why you did this. And I know why you lost._

His face was different, fierce. She had never been on the other side of his deductions, never seen that face with teeth bared dangerously. It aroused her, but didn't calm the quiver of fear under her ribs.

"Sentiment? What are you talking about?" she asked, fighting to keep her calm. _No. Sherlock, no. _

"You." His face was as intense as she had ever seen it, even in the bedroom. He was deducing her, taking her, studying her, stripping her of her armor and skinning her alive until he could see into her flawed and exposed soul.

It enraged her- she wanted to protect the last vestiges of dignity that she retained. Full of hopeless (no it wasn't love it couldn't be impossible not with him not with her) fury she bared her own teeth, keeping her face calm while she did the same to him.

_High intellect- bullied heavily in school. Lack of interpersonal relationships. Mocked- and hates being mocked so he intimidates everyone until they are too terrified to make fun of him. The quickest way to humiliate Sherlock Holmes is to not only make fun of him, but to prove him wrong. _

"Oh dear God," she trilled, a mocking tease in her voice. "Look at the poor man. You didn't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" Each word was like a barb, to her. But strangely, inversely, Sherlock wasn't responding.

He was resisting her last and only defense.

"No," he told her, voice horribly soft. He moved closer, until their bodies were almost touching. In the cold room, she could feel the heat of him as her body reacted to his intimate position. Her mind remembered the way he smelled, the sense of vulnerability that tickled at the back of her mind when she registered his height and the wry power of his slender body. Against her will, her breath caught and her nipples hardened. It grew worse when his long fingers captured her wrist in a gentle grasp, twining around her body to bring his mouth to her ear.

"Because I took your pulse," he whispered, breath hot on the shell of her ear.

_Kneeling between his thighs and holding his hand, asking him if he had ever loved anyone._

_The delicious confusion on his face as he tried to register her question._

_The feel of her pulse thudding though her body, at her neck, at her temples, at her wrists._

_Two firm fingertips on the underside of her wrist. _

She remembered. She made a small keening sound, inaudible to anyone but Sherlock. He tightened his grip on her wrist, and now she could feel in real-time the pounding of her blood in her veins against the firm pressure of his fingertips.

"Elevated," he said, and she through sense memory she could feel the rumbling in his chest as he spoke.

_Her naked back against his front as they cuddled and he lectured her on his latest experiment_

_Her head resting on the sparsely haired expanse of chest, listening to the thud of his heart and the vibrations of his voice._

"Your pupils, dilated," he finished, staring down at her (undoubtedly dilated) eyes. He released her with no warning, leaving a sudden coolness on her ear and wrist.

He leaned past her to pluck her phone from the table, speaking rapidly as he walked away. "I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive." She felt compelled to follow him, misery and panic building and pushing at her ribs.

Sherlock faced her again, face merciless. "When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you- the combination to your safe, your measurements. But this-" he tossed her phone in the air and caught it deftly. "This is far more intimate."

With a few clicks of the buttons, he had brought up the locked page. "This is your heart…" he said, eyes not leaving hers and he punched in keys.

She hoped, desperately, he had guessed wrong, that this elaborate show and agonistic worry that he had put her through was all for nothing.

He punched in the first number. "And you should never let it rule your head." _ I know._

_Oh god, he knows. _

"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for," he continued, inputting the second number. _You chose to make this game fair. You shouldn't have done that, Irene._

"But you just couldn't resist it, could you?" Her panic was showing- her respirations per minute rose, and her fists clenched. "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage." He put in the third number. "Thank you for the final proof."

She couldn't help herself- despite all her wishes to not appear weak, she grabbed his hand, and looked up at him, begging with her eyes.

She was done for- she wasn't foolish enough to believe that Sherlock would lose for love. He hated losing. And she deserved it. It was the game, after all. But she had a chance to beg for mercy.

"Everything I said- it's not real." _I love you and you know it you bastard. This was the game. _"I was just playing the game." _This was the game, not us. _Her voice was quiet, heartbreakingly soft.

He responded in kind. "I know," he whispered. _I know. I know. _He pulled out of her grasp and typed in the final number. "And this is just losing." He turned the phone toward her, letting her see what he had written.

It was a lost fight, holding back the tears. She let them out, showing him her weakness.

_I AM_

_LOCKED_

The play on words had seemed so clever at the time, an admission of sentiment without actually having to admit it. On cold nights in America she had wondered what would happen if Sherlock guessed, if he would realize the depths of her feelings. She had fantasized about arriving home one day and find him waiting for her, telling her that he had unlocked her phone and that she meant the same to him.

Sherlock gave the phone to Mycroft, still meeting her eyes.

_I'm not sorry for unlocking it. _

_You've killed me. _

_I'm sorry for causing you pain._

_You signed my death warrant._

_I don't want you dead. _

_I don't believe you._

"There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight." Sherlock swallowed roughly.

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft replied, a rather slimy grin on his face.

_I don't want you hurt. _

_Too bad. That phone was my protection and you just gave it to someone else. _

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up. Otherwise, let her go. I doubt she'll survive long without her protection." Sherlock said, turning and leaving.

_There you are. Admit that you just killed me, lover of mine. _

Irene stared after him. "Are you expecting me to beg?" she asked, angrily.

Sherlock met her eyes again. "Yes."

It went against every instinct.

"Please," she said finally, cords in her neck standing out from clenching her jaw. "You're right." He looked at her. "I won't even last six months."

_I'll have you right here on this desk until you beg for mercy twice. _

_There you are, Sherlock- I've begged you for mercy twice. _

_Do you feel anything for me?_

His eyes, those eternal conundrums of ice blue and pale green softened with- something. "Sorry about dinner."

_Dinner. _

_He- he feels something too._

* * *

Sherlock left Mycroft's office with the feeling that his world had been completely flipped on its side by Irene Adler.

The betrayal had been hollow, the realization that _she_ had done this.

The humiliation had been gutting, the rise of horror at the idea that he could be fooled so easily.

And finally, the earth shattering pain that had the mere idea of what he had shared with Irene being nothing but a job to her.

_"I don't trade in sex, Sherlock," Irene said, voice serious for once instead of playful. She was propped up on one elbow, mirroring his position. There was a sheet draped over where her and Sherlock's legs were tangled together in a shapeless mass._

_"You're a dominatrix." He didn't bother keeping the confusion out of his voice. "Pardon me for not knowing exactly what it is that you do." _

_She dragged her fingers through her hair. "I deal in humiliation. Pain, ridicule, emotional release. These people, these powerful men and women, fall into three main types, although they do overlap a bit. There are those who are placed in positions of stress daily. They make decisions that get people killed, topple governments, and sabotage revolutions. There is so much pressure on them, at all time. They are in the public eye, they need to be perfect and in control and right all the time."_

_"So you take the responsibility for a while," Sherlock surmised, the light of learning in his eyes. _

_Irene nodded, gifting him with a smile. "Exactly. While they're with me, I'm in charge. I decide what they wear, what they do. They have to obey me unconditionally. They tell me what they did, what they are ashamed of, what they struggled with. They ask for my approval of their decisions. They need someone to tell them they did well. And I tease them and manipulate them to a point that when they do find release, it is the kind that makes them black out. Their orgasms are so strong that they are boneless, they don't have to think. They are free of whatever was plaguing them, and are free to continue their work unhindered." _

_"And you get plenty of state secrets in the process," added Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. _

_"Yes," Irene admitted, laughing. "I do. But my point is that I don't have sex with them. I use my hands and my toys on them. I hardly have to touch them to bring them to the point of almost losing themselves in lust. I am their superior, not their equal. Sex is something for equals, a thing of beauty, a type of emotion that must be equally present on both sides to be fulfilling." _

_Sherlock reached out and caressed her face, almost shyly. "What we have." _

_"Yes," Irene said. _

_"What about the others?" he asked. "The other groups?"_

_She hesitated, then forged on. "Those are the masochists, the ones who get off on pain. I whip them, I hit them, I humiliate them. I make them look into their souls and see what they hate about themselves, and I use pain to purify them. It's their penance. For the man who hates himself for abandoning his morals to politics, I become the physical manifestation of his hate. I torture him for it, until he has atoned for his perceived sins. They don't need sex to add to their guilt- I simply provide pain."_

_Sherlock was silent, absorbing the information. "And the last group?" he asked finally. _

_"The kinky ones," she said. "The men who like dressing like women, the rich poppets who are figuring out if they like girls or not. Usually, they'll also fall into one of the other two categories, but sometimes they really just want someone to tie them up and speak dirty. The girl whose pictures you were trying to find was one of those."_

_"So the sex is something different for you?" Sherlock asked. His tone was casual, but face and body language told her a different story. _

_Quickly making her mind up, Irene leaned in and kissed him. When she pulled away, she stayed close. "Sherlock, I'm gay. Normally, I mean. I prefer women to men, and always have. Except for you. Yes the sex is different, because up until now, I've only ever had sex with women." _

When he arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock ignored John and secluded himself in his room.

He folded his long legs into a tailor's seat, keeping his back straight as he delved into his mind palace.

It was organized like a true palace- there were three floors above ground, and one below. The ground floor was where he was usually- basic knowledge in the center. John occupied the North Wing. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson shared the South Wing. Whatever case he was working on, the East Wing. His work, his experiments and all the relevant scientific knowledge the West Wing.

Below that floor were his secrets, the bad things. He didn't like going there.

On the second floor was all his studies, all his obscure facts, held in an enormous library. The entire floor was the library, lined with shelves of books and neatly divided into categories. It had taken him the better part of two weeks to build it, and he was always adding books.

The third floor was memories. His memories, all the things that were important to him. They were represented in various ways- high school was in one room, but individual memories were paintings or statues.

Irene Adler had half of that floor.

He had made a study of her, building her a suite of rooms in the glorious style of her house in Belgravia. In the sitting room, there was a large painting of her standing before him nude. In a case were a pair of marquise cut diamond earrings, and a pair of black and red heels.

Going through that room was a hall of portraits, each with a specific memory attached to it. He spent an hour there, adding new ones.

_Irene lying asleep in his bed, hair wet from his shower._

_Irene in only his blue dressing gown._

_Irene, the way she looked as she kneeled before him, holding his hand, her face surrounded by firelight. _

_Irene, in full makeup and black dress, inside the airplane. _

_Irene, eyes full of tears as he showed her his phone. _

Past that was another room full of display cases. Her riding crop was there. The dress she had worn the night of their first dinner. His coat. A camera phone. He added another, unlocked one.

In a fourth room was dinner. Plates of food, restaurant receipts, chocolate mousse. He added tea, the kind he had given her in the flat.

And in the fifth room, was sex. Each touch, each kiss, each separate encounter and the conversations that followed, in a painting.

_The look of wonder on Irene's face the first time he had entered her. _

_Her body above him, head tilted back. _

_How she looked under him. _

Every time they had loved one another, inside one room.

He poured through every memory he had of Irene Adler, the mysterious woman who had done the impossible and made him feel.

_Was it real?_

_Did she love me?_

_Was she faking it?_

_The raised pulse and dilated pupils- some other cause?_

_How long has she been working for Moriarty? _

The next morning, John knocked on the door and walked in, saw Sherlock in his thinking mode, and walked out. Mrs. Hudson insisted on leaving plates of food and cups of tea that went cold and untouched.

On the second day, Sherlock unfolded his painful limbs and pulled himself under the bedcovers to sleep. He rose when John did, went into the kitchen, drank tea, and pretended everything was normal.

It wasn't.

He had a world-class dominatrix to find and protect.

* * *

Irene spoke only basic Urdu, but she understood much more. The men who had caught her were talking quickly, but she still managed to get the gist of the conversation.

They knew who she was, who she had worked for, who she had threatened. More importantly, perhaps, her line of work.

The punishment for prostitution was death.

When she was politely shown to her cell (they didn't believe in being rude to prisoners, which she was thankful for), Irene know that in three days she would be dead. And in two parts- head and body.

As the sun rose on the third day, the polite man who had informed her in heavily accented English that she was to be beheaded asked if she had any requests.

"A bath, if you could," she said. "Some clean clothes. And- my phone. For a last message."

The man coughed lightly. "The water and the clothing can be arraigned. The phone, tonight. We can't risk you calling for help. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Irene said, inclining her head. "Thank you."

The water was lukewarm, but it felt wonderful to wash away the grime and the sweat of fear. The clothes were 'proper' garments for a women, black and heavy. But they were clean, if worn, and she put them on gratefully. She was left alone to "make her peace with her God."

_So… my great game has come to an end. _

_Who is my God? Who do I make peace with? I don't believe in Allah, or in Yahweh, or in God. I don't believe in reincarnation, or any sort of life after. This is it. At least I made my mark on the world. _

_Sherlock Holmes will remember me forever. He memorized me, he promised he wouldn't delete me. I'll live on, young and beautiful in his mind palace until he dies. A memorial in memory. If it was to be anyone's, I would choose Sherlock Holmes. _

_He's my god. In the end, I couldn't hate him, not with how much I love him and how thoroughly I understand him. We were playing the game, and I lost. No room for spoiled feelings. I'm sure he feels the same. _

_Funny, that. I'm his. He's mine. He told me once that I was "The Woman" when we weren't together. Sherlock has very specific relationships with everyone. I'm the Woman, John's the Best Friend, Mycroft is the Family, Mrs. Hudson is the Caretaker, Lestrade is the Colleague. It all works perfectly in his head._

_So. I should make my peace with Sherlock Holmes. Once last message before I die. _

_I'll just tell him goodbye. He'll understand when the news of my death reaches him _

When it was dark, they led her to cleared area. A heavy man with beefy hands forced her to her knees, although she would have done it herself (with far more grace) it he had just let her be. He, apparently, was the most angry at the victim.

With a shaky hand, she typed out her last message, ignoring the man who was telling to her give him the phone. She was uneasily aware of the man behind her a bit to her side, holding a short sword. Her executioner.

_Goodbye, Mr. Holmes_

She pressed send, then gave up her phone. The man with the sword came to stand behind her, bringing the silver blade up and down slowly in measured practice swing.

_Oh, god. I'm going to die. _

She couldn't quite fight the tears, so she closed her eyes. As cowardly as it seemed, she no longer cared about facing the end of her life with all her dignity intact. She didn't have to see her own death coming.

And then she heard _her_ sighing moan echoing though the chamber.

_Sherlock._

Her eyes snapped open, and she turned her head to look at her executioner.

_Blue-gray eyes. Sherlock. My lovely, lovely Sherlock. _

"When I say run, _run_," he whispered. She nodded, and turned around, presenting him with the back of her neck again.

She could hear the whistle of air as he brought the blade up, and then his movements as he turned on the man next to him.

Irene waited until that man fell, quickly unstrapping his gun and hoisting it up to her own shoulder. With two careful shots, she took out the man who was aiming at Sherlock with a rifle and another man who was heading toward her. Sherlock cut down another man with his sword.

She ran to the camera man, pointing the gun at him. "Give me the camera," she ordered. It was a teenager, with hardly enough fuzz on his face to be called a beard. "Now!"

The boy thrust it at her, and ran.

"Get in the car!" Sherlock yelled at her, chopping at another man. "The keys are in the ignition."

She ran to the vehicle, starting it quickly and setting the gun on her lap. "Come on!" she shouted back. "Let's go!"

With one more brutal downswing, he ran for the car. She covered him with a spray of shots, hitting a few of those who were chasing Sherlock. However, his long legs did the job and he was soon in the car and then were backing away, speeding down a dark road.

"Are they following us?" Irene asked, heart pounding terribly, terribly fast.

Sherlock shook his head, curls flying everywhere. "No. I disabled their other vehicles. It would take them hours to get more resources. We're safe."

The night air in the outskirts of Karachi was warm, and carried the scents of the city. Irene tilted her head back against the seat, and let out a shaky laugh. "Safe. Thank you, Sherlock."

She looked over at him, and they shared a rare smile. "It was my pleasure. Irene."

"Where are we going?" she asked, looking away as they came to a crossroad. "Into the city or away?"

"I have a room near the center of the city," Sherlock told her. "With clothes and a proper shower. I brought some clothes for you, too." He rubbed at his shoulder. "We need to abandon this car. I have another one a short while away."

True to his word, there was a nondescript and dusty car parked by the side of the road. "Not stolen- a miracle," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He slid into the driver's seat, and Irene shakily went to the passenger's side.

They were silent for the entirety of the ride to the hotel. The crowded city streets were packed, and if she hadn't been gripping the folds of the robe she was wearing tightly her hands would have been shaking.

For his part, Sherlock was silent, except for the slightly muffled tapping sound of his fingers drumming on his leg. He was still flushed, and breathing hard from the exertion. Irene's mind flashed to images of him, a red flush in his cheeks and breathing hard as he worked over her. It was a hazard of her profession- thinking about the bedroom all the time. She laughed to herself, then realized it was aloud.

Sherlock looked at her strangely. "We are here," he stated briskly. "Ground floor." He parked awkwardly- she remembered that Sherlock disliked driving. He had admitted to her one night that he would only drive when he absolutely had to.

She was interrupted from her musings when Sherlock opened her door, looking down at her. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," she said, letting out a slow breath. "I'm just a little- just a little shaky."

He didn't make any comments, just offered an arm to help her down from the seat. He allowed her to cling to him as they entered the hotel through a side door, and began walking down a long corridor to their room.

The hotel room was the twin of hotel rooms everywhere- it was done in tones of gold and brown, a painting of a vase and fruit hanging over a queen sized bed with starched white sheets. There was a bathroom tucked into a corner, and a large window hung with heavy dark gold drapes. It was pleasant, impersonal, and safe. She let go of Sherlock and sat on the bed. .

"I need to take a shower," she said, glancing at the bathroom door. "Did you bring any soap?"

He looked a bit disappointed, but nodded, crossing the room in swift strides to pull a black toiletry bag from his suitcase. "Here."

"Thank you," she said, brushing his hand with hers when she accepted the bag. He nodded briskly.

The bathroom was tiny, but had a proper tub and shower. She stripped, removing the black clothes and folding them neatly. The bag Sherlock had given her contained the soap he used, and pleasantly, the normal brand of shampoo and conditioner that she had used before.

Originally, her plan had been to use his soap, but he had made such a nice gesture that she felt no compunctions about using her old shampoo. The cool water that wet her hair and poured over her neck and shoulders was a relief after the heat of the city; still, she was grateful when it warmed.

She showered quickly, turning off the water and wringing out her hair before stepping out. On the back of the door, hanging from a hook, was Sherlock's blue dressing gown. Irene hadn't heard him come in- the rusty old pipes of the hotel had been too loud.

When she emerged from the bathroom in a small cloud of steam, Sherlock stared at her with his normal inscrutable gaze. He was seated at the small desk in the corner of the room, hair damp and in a fresh pair of slacks and a tight purple button-down shirt. Irene glanced at the door she had ignored earlier in her perusal of the room- apparently it led to another room, with another shower.

A rough sound was Sherlock coughing. "I will go out and get food," Sherlock said jerkily. "I-"

"No," Irene said quietly, standing and walking toward him. She put a hand on his chest, admiring the purple shirt with some part of her mind. "I'm not hungry. Are you?"

Sherlock stared down at her. "No," he said, voice dipping lower.

She smiled up at him sadly. "Why would you want to have dinner if you aren't hungry?"

His hand rose to cover hers where it rested on his chest. She could feel his heart beating quickly, the fast thumps reminding her of the beat of a hummingbird's wings. "Is it the end of the world?"

Irene's face grew solemn. "The very last night?"

"I would have dinner with you," Sherlock whispered, long fingers stroking the back of her hand.

They were standing in the middle of the room, staring into each other eyes, understanding them fully.

_I forgive you._

_I'm sorry._

_Me too._

_It was fun, wasn't it?_

_The outcome wasn't._

_True._

_We lost time._

_What do you suggest?_

_You know what they say about making up lost time…_

Slowly Sherlock brought his other arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him and trapping their other hands between them. He brought his head down, kissing her gently, eyes open.

Irene responded in kind, moving her lips and tongue in languorous, sensual movements. Her other hand went to his shoulders, as she tilted her head to deepen their kiss.

It was achingly sweet, the kiss of separated lovers relearning habit that had been relegated to memory. He tasted so familiar to her, so much like _Sherlock_ that it almost brought the banished tears back.

When he pulled away slowly, sucking lightly at her lower lip before resting his head on her forehead, Irene sighed.

"I missed you," she admitted, a trace of sheepishness finding its way into her voice.

"And I, you," he responded. "Irene." Her name was obviously savored, by the way his voice caressed it and he smiled slightly.

Irene laughed softly. "Who would ever think you would miss me? The great Sherlock Holmes…"

"Who fell for a woman," Sherlock whispered. "It's confounding, the relationship between how much you put me through and how much I care for you. Any normal person would hate you by now."

"You aren't normal," said Irene seriously. "Any normal person wouldn't understand this."

Sherlock's hand stroked her back. "You aren't exactly normal yourself," he said, a wry smile quirking up the corner of his lips.

"And that's why you-" she had been about to say 'love,' but paused. She looked at him questioningly. _Love me?_

He understood. "Yes," he said simply.

Irene closed her eyes as her emotions overwhelmed her. _That's probably as close to a declaration of love that I'm ever going to get from this man. And it's okay- we said it ourselves, we aren't normal. That was Sherlock Holmes telling me loves me. I know it, he knows it, and it doesn't matter that we'll probably never say the words aloud. _

Instead of saying anything else, she stretched up and kissed him, moving her hand from his chest so that she could fully mold herself to his body.

After she pulled away, she ran her fingers through his damp curls and stepped back. "We should talk."

"We can talk after," Sherlock said seductively, although Irene was sure the allure was completely unintentional and just the product of her overactive imagination.

She allowed herself to be pulled back into his embrace. "After what?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow. _Do you have the guts to say it, laddiebuck? _

Sherlock lowered his head to kiss at the place her jawbone met her neck. "After we misbehave," he whispered in her ear.

"You are not getting out of talking about this later, my dear," she told him as firmly as she could, under the influence of his hands and lips. "Understood?"

He chuckled. "Yes, Ms. Adler."

"You should've brought my riding crop," Irene gasped, digging her nails into his biceps even though she was overjoyed he was joking with her.

Sherlock kissed her mouth again, the fingers of one hand tracing a pattern on the back of her neck. He pulled away gently, waiting until he had her full attention to speak. "If you want to, we can discuss things now. I wouldn't want you to think I'm using sex to distract you."

"Are you?" she asked carefully.

Sherlock flushed a bit. "No. I had actually planned to talk before, but-" he stopped and cleared his throat. "I- um, I-"

Innocently quizzical, Irene looked up at him, keeping her smirk at bay. "Yes?"

He flushed more. "I was… taken aback by how eager I was to- how much I wanted- um, the level-"

"How much you wanted to… misbehave?" she asked, struggling not to laugh and hurt his feelings. "You can say it, Sherlock." She said it like a challenge, and he responded.

Sherlock's eyes- his disquieting eyes of many colors- flashed and he made a low noise Irene couldn't identify. "I had planned to talk, but I hadn't accounted for how much I might- how much I might want you. First."

She wound her arms around his neck to pull herself up and kiss him. "I'm flattered," she whispered. "Truly, Sherlock. To make a man of your self-control break his plan because he desires me… that is the kind of power I revel in."

"Is it power?" he murmured lips grazing her neck. "Should I be worried?"

Irene laughed, low and throaty. "You have the same power over me," she admitted. "I call a truce."

"So be it," Sherlock agreed.

He knew, even as he finally sunk onto the bed with Irene Adler in arms, that their night in Karachi would become a defining moment in his life. He had known it when he met John- when John shot a man for him. That night had solidified his bond with the soldier.

For Irene Adler, the night that he admitted to himself that he might go beyond merely caring for her was the night she became his- the night he finally had someone. He embraced the knowledge that she would forever remain a part of him fully, with no reservations. Yes, there was unfinished business but he was summarily convinced that the business would be resolved by the next night. The questions unanswered gave the night a kind of sharp relief- the warning that it might be the last, depending on words that would come with sunlight. Sherlock cared and yet didn't care at the same time- even if it was his last night with Irene Adler, she had changed him. Was changing him.

It was like their first night together, where he had been completely entranced by her body and her reactions. Now he had to relearn her body- she had lost weight on her run, and had obtained a few new and interesting scars.

She seemed lovelier than she had before. There was a chemical reaction with serotonin and oxytocin that was probably to blame, but when he was occupied with her skin and breasts he could hardly be expected to remember it.

It was the first night he demanded anything of her.

"Tell me."_ Say it aloud. Tell me what I already know._

"You're mine." _You belong to me, Sherlock Holmes. You have me. _

"And?" _What else? I know but please…_

"I'm yours." _I love you. _

"Mine." _You are mine, Irene. I love you._

"Only as much as you're mine." _I love you too. _

They would probably never say it outright, but that was fine with them. John wouldn't have understood it.

John wouldn't understand none of it, and Sherlock wouldn't expect him to. Mycroft, perhaps, could conceive such a thing. Sherlock doubted he would, unless given enough information to piece it together. Moriarty would understand- and it suddenly became more important to keep themselves hidden.

But on that night, that last long night in Karachi, it wouldn't matter. No one mattered- not Moriarty, not Mycroft, not John. Perhaps not even Sherlock and Irene. All that mattered was the sense of perfection, the illusion of wonder and connection and the physical affirmation.

When Sherlock and Irene fell into an exhausted sleep, they were wound about each other tightly, in spirit as well as body.

Distance and time would not separate them. Nor would games or alliances.

Their relationship was different, strange, and indecipherable to anyone but themselves. Beyond the ken of mortals. It transcended the merely physical, to become indelible, like the men in myths of old who gave up bodies for immortality among the stars. Unlike the ephemeral bonds of those who could flit between mates like bees from flower to flower, Sherlock and Irene were it.

She was The Woman, and that was the end.

* * *

**I hoped you liked my (not so) little story. If you did, please leave a review. If you have constructive criticism, also, please leave a review. **

**If you have something you want to ask a question about and receive a response, I'm on tumblr. Find me on my author's page. :) Also there is my other Sherlock/Irene story.**

**Thank you for reading, and to those who review or favorite, thank you also. **


	3. SEQUEL!

**Well... remember how I said I wasn't going to expand this? I lied. **

**I wrote a sequel which is going to develop into a full length multi-chaptered Adlock story. YAY! The first chapter is up now.**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and suggested I expand on this. I did. :)**

**And to tempt you... here is part of the prologue for my new story/expansion. **

* * *

After he died, Sherlock Holmes sought his redemption in the arms of Irene Adler.

It made perfect sense, to him. Irene Adler had played a part in his downfall, and she would play a part when he rose from the ashes and reclaimed what was his. She was as much a ghost as he was. How strange, that once they had been together and alive and thought themselves immortal.

That was their folly. When they fell so hard they burst into flames, when there was nothing but ash and regret and pain, that was when they truly knew how foolish they had been to ever think themselves gods.

_"I thought I might never see you again." Her eyes greedily drink in the features of his face. He can feel the gentle sweep of her gaze on the many bruises that mar his complexion._

_"Because the papers say I'm dead?" He quirks up one eyebrow, and she makes a small noise in the back of her throat, a laugh and a moan and sob, as if to say, 'You know me better than that.'_

_She lets him into the generous flat, turning to find herself trapped against her own door. "Because I knew who you were facing," she whispers. "Sherlock-"_

_"Moriarty is dead." He lifts a hand to her face, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers._

_"Then why aren't- John, I'm guessing?" The flash of terrible anger on his face confirms her guess._

_"And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." The names sound like a mantra already, a purpose, a vendetta._

_"What do you need from me?" There are many, many things that Sherlock Holmes needs from her. But as any man (for now he is a mere man- Sherlock Holmes has been proven mortal in the most fatal of ways) wishes to prolong the inevitable, Sherlock slants his mouth over Irene's and presses her against the door because it hurts too much to think clearly._

But when he had finished his mission, when he had thrust aside the shroud and walked like Lazarus into the familiar kitchen of 221B Baker Street, his lover remained a specter. It seemed for the best- it had been too easy, too tempting, to give in to the grey softness of anonymity when being dead meant being with Irene Adler.

* * *

**For the rest of the prologue, go read!**

**See you there. :)**


End file.
